


About Face

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had once said that one day Sherlock was going to be the reason they were all standing around a body. She had never expected it to be his own. And in that final act of his, which left more questions than there were answers for, she starts to find her opinion of him changing, and that leads to so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	About Face

**Author's Note:**

> For **dweo** at [sherlockmas](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com).

She had disliked him. Never hated him, as arrogant an arse as he was. She hated the criminals they both put away more than anything else. They were all right to hate because, frankly, they were scum. Lower than low. She may not have liked Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn’t scum. And she had her doubts that he was as brilliant as everyone made him out to be, doubts that had only come to the forefront with the accusations. Only then did she really voice these thoughts out loud. The idea that he had set up the crimes, been a criminal mastermind…that seemed a bit too far fetched, but she did entertain the notion once or twice. She truly had believed that one day they would be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes would be the reason it was there.

She had never expected it to be his own body, though. Oh, the other body at St. Bart’s that day, the one on the roof, that was suicide as well. Whatever had gone down on that roof that day had been two suicides, and that was when she started to rethink things, because she’d never pegged Sherlock as the type to take the coward’s way out. Something must have happened on that roof that hit him at the core of his being. Scotland Yard felt it was open and shut, but things nagged at her, things that didn’t seem quite right. She did her research, did what she was trained to do. And the more she dug into things the more she found herself questioning her position on Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson had been surprised to see her a few months after Sherlock’s death. Lestrade had tried to get him to consult on cases, and every time she had seen a broken man in front of her. She caught him just as he was going out for some reason or another, and when she said she wanted to talk about Sherlock the look of surprise on his face astounded her, and then there was confusion. But he invited her inside, and she went over everything she had learned, everything that was making her change her mind about Sherlock, and she ended by asking him why he still believed in Sherlock. The conversation lasted for hours, far longer than she had thought it would, and by the end of it she was thoroughly convinced Sherlock was not a fake. 

Anderson didn’t understand. He was happy to have his opinion, to look at the facts the way he wanted and keep the opinions he had, that Sherlock was nothing but a fraud, nothing but trouble. That put strain in their relationship, and then it was over, as simple as that. She was glad, because she had been tired of fighting over a dead man, but she was also sad because now that she knew the truth and believed it wholeheartedly it cost her someone she cared about.

She had started to spend more time with John, listening to him talk about Sherlock. His other friends didn’t want him to. They wanted him to let go and move on. But she wanted to know more. She wanted to understand the man she had loathed for so long, to know why he was how he was, to know what he had been like as a person, and if his best friend had the stories she wanted to hear them. At first he did so painfully, as if talking about Sherlock caused the words to brush over an open wound and sting. But slowly, surely, the pain became less, and he smiled as he shared stories.

And then before she realized it the stories changed. Yes, they still talked about Sherlock, but soon the stories became more personal. She began learning about John as much as she did Sherlock, and she found him to be just as fascinating. And then she found herself telling her own stories, at John’s insistence, stories she had kept close to the vest as part of her prickly personality. Stories that her friends, if she had had close friends, would have known. He got them out of her, and she shared them willingly.

It was one night roughly a year after Sherlock’s death that he suggested dinner. She laughed and asked if she should consider it a date and he said yes. The laughter stopped and she looked at him quizzically, wondering when what they had had gone from something near friendship to this, something that was more. But she agreed, and for the first time since she’d gone to him they spent an entire night talking and Sherlock didn’t come up once. She had to admit, it was probably one of the better dates she had ever been out on.

It led to a second date, then a third, the a fourth. The sour expression she wore all the time didn’t come up as much, and the smile felt better. It hadn’t been like this with Anderson, probably because they’d been trying to hide things, keep it quiet so as to not get others to notice. She didn’t have to hide whatever this was with John, and it was good. It pleased her. When they got around to figuring out that they were actually in a relationship and she got to introduce him as her boyfriend, they both wore huge smiles on their faces. 

This wasn’t to say they didn’t have problems; they did, because every couple does, but they weren’t huge and insurmountable, and John was much more willing to talk them through, figure things out, make things work. Sometimes she resisted, but never for long, and in the end they managed to get over these hills and back to normal. He was a good man, a kind man, a patient man, and he was hers, and she didn’t want to let him go.

And now it’s the day before their wedding, about two years after the conversations on Sherlock, a year and a half after their first date. There’s so much she wants to say to him, so much she wants him to know, but there’s one thing she wants to do first. She didn’t go there for the funeral, and any time John’s gone there she’s let him go on his own, to give him privacy to speak to his friend. It wasn’t that hard to find Sherlock’s headstone, and she stood in front of it, looking at the dark stone with the simple engravings.

“So,” she says. “I bet John’s already been here and told you about us. About all of it, I suppose. The dates, the first kiss, the proposal, and now the wedding. I bet in a million years you never would have imagined us together. I bet you’d have thought one day I’d get Anderson all on my own and we’d be horrible people bound together legally. But then you died, and I wasn’t happy with the explanation of your death. So…I did my research. I talked to people. I even got that reporter to admit it was all lies. And my opinion about you changed.”

She set the flowers she had brought on his grave, and then stood back up. “I don’t think you’re a fraud. I think Richard Brooks really was Moriarty and I don’t think you staged all those crimes you solved. I believe in you now, even though it’s too late, and I’ll show all my proof to make sure the world feels the same. And I promise I’ll take care of John. I’ll try my best to make him happy, to make sure he’s cared for. I promise I’ll love him until I die, all right? Just…keep watch on him. Keep him safe. That’s all I ask.” She turned at that point and left, having said her peace. She’d made a promise to the man John loved so much, and she intended to keep it, come hell or high water. It was the least she could do.


End file.
